


Skin and Scales

by Ernmark (M_Moonshade)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Other, arum turns human, but at the moment it's more of a theory, other characters turn nonhuman, you would think this is an AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-01 12:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11486037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/Ernmark
Summary: The man glares, and this time, Damien is certain it isn’t a trick of the light: those eyes are violet as amethyst. He wears disdain like a second skin–- or, perhaps, like the scales that he is missing.“Lord Arum?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can find DisasterScenario's illustrations [here](http://disasterscenario.tumblr.com/post/162710414399/ernmark-i-got-this-idea-in-my-head-and-i-dont).

The man is on is knees, rocking back and forth and clutching his chest like he’s in agony. The man himself is unfamiliar, with a long, lean face and a sharp chin, but Damien recognizes the ragged breathing and the unhealthy pallor of his skin as the signs of an anxiety attack.

There is no shortage of reasons for panic when one is alone this deep in the jungle.

Damien approaches slowly, keeping his voice low. “My good man, are you hurt?”

The other man looks up, his eyes wide and blinking rapidly. Perhaps it’s the light, or perhaps they’re bloodshot from the panic, but he’s never seen human eyes reach quite that color. They look almost purple.

“Whatever it is, you’re safe now,” Damien says. “My name is Sir Damien, and I am a knight of the Crown. I swear, I will allow no harm to come to you.”

Something shifts in the stranger’s expression as panic borders on hysteria.

“Damien?” He chokes on a frightened laugh. He’s too far gone for Damien to take offense with the familiarity. “Not so little now, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m not.” Damien scoots a little closer. The way the man is clutching his chest is cause for alarm. “Let me look at you. Are you injured?”

“What does it look like?” the man hisses, suddenly furious. “They’re gone!”

“Who’s gone?”

“Not who, you blind poet– my arms! They’re– they’ve been stolen!” He extends both arms, as if showing off a grievous injury… except there isn’t one. The man’s strange, oversized clothes obscure most of his shape, but as far as Damien can see, there isn’t a mark on him.

“Nobody’s taken them,” Damien says gently, closing his hand over one of the stranger’s. “They’re right here, see?”

“Not _those_ arms!” The man is shouting now. “Can’t you count?” He slaps Damien’s hand away. His fingers are curled into claws, though his nails are blunt and harmless. 

“Then we’ll find them,” Damien says gently. Perhaps walking might help ease the man out of his mania; even if it doesn’t, he can’t leave him here. He might hurt himself in his madness. “Can you stand?”

“How can you expect me to stand without my tail?”

“What you lack in a tail, I’m sure we can make up with sheer tenacity.”

The man’s eyes narrow, and he wraps his arms back around his chest. “Don’t patronize me, honeysuckle.”

Damien’s heart skips a beat. “What– what did you call me?”

The man glares, and this time, he’s certain it isn’t a trick of the light: those eyes are violet as amethyst. He wears disdain like a second skin– or, perhaps, like the scales that he is missing.

“Lord Arum?” he whispers.

The scowl he receives is all the answer he needs.

“What strange sorcery is this? Who did this to you?”

“If I knew that, they would be dead already.” He makes a sound that Damien is sure would be a very threatening rattle, if his throat could produce it properly. At least the panic seems to have subsided.

“Yes, I suppose they would.” Or at least, he would try. “Are you hurt? Beyond the obvious, I mean.”

“How should I know? This forsaken body feels like it’s falling apart around me.”

“I might be able to assist in that regard. Let me take a look at you.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” This time Lord Arum’s glare doesn’t quite reach Damien’s eyes. There’s an uncharacteristic self-consciousness tucked in among his agitation. A part of Damien wants to insist, but he refrains. Lord Arum must be uncomfortable enough without being gawked at.

“Alright,” he says, sitting back. “Can you tell if you’re bleeding at all?” There’s no sign of blood, but he might have missed something.

“No,” Lord Arum mutters.

“What about broken bones? Does it hurt to move anything? Your wrists? Ankles?” 

Lord Arum’s hands clench into fists, and he shifts minutely as his ankles flex beneath him.“It feels strange.”

“I think strange is to be expected, all things considered. But not painful?”

“No.”

“Can you stand?”

Lord Arum scowls again. “What’s wrong with staying here?”

“In your rightful form, nothing, I’m sure,” Damien says. “But this forest is no place for a human, especially at night.”

There’s a good deal more grumbling and muttering than might befit a lord, but at last Lord Arum leans forward and starts to push himself off the ground. He doesn’t get much further than that, though before he starts to lose his balance. He twists his spine as if he’s in pain, but that only sends him toppling faster.

Damien catches him before he lands. “Are you alright?”

“How do you humans live this way?” Lord Arum hisses. “Your legs bend all wrong, and you’re missing half your arms, and you have no tail. How do you expect to accomplish anything?”

“Usually with years of practice,” Damien says gently. “None of which it seems you’ve had. May I?”

“I’d rather take my chances here,” Lord Arum mutters under his breath. He looks almost like he’s in pain. “Fine. Do what you want. I can hardly stop you, can I?”

Damien can sympathize. This situation would be demeaning to anyone, even if they didn’t have Lord Arum’s pride. But he wasn’t lying before: this place isn’t safe for them.

He gets close. “Put your arms around my neck– yes, like that– and hold on tightly.”

"You can’t honestly expect to lift me, honeysuckle,” Lord Arum mutters. “You’re going to break your spine.”

And if Lord Arum was still his full size, that might be true. But he’s smaller now, and Damien has spent years grappling against Sir Angelo on the sparring floor.

“I’m not as delicate as that.” He wraps his arms around Lord Arum’s waist, then slowly rises to his feet, bringing the once-lizard up with him. “Try finding your footing now. It’s easier once you’re already on your feet.”

Lord Arum wriggles against him as he tries to get a feel for the ground. The movements are entirely innocent, but they seem nearly obscene when they’re pressed so close together.

He shoves the thought to the back of his mind– it’s entirely inappropriate to think that way of a person in need of his help. He steps back as soon as he’s able, but Lord Arum’s arms linger around his neck.

"How is that?”

“Awkward and uncomfortable,” Lord Arum mutters.

Damien can’t help a blush. “I apologize. I didn’t intend to get quite so close–”

“Not you.” Lord Arum looks aside. “The legs.”

He’s blushing, too.

Damien clears his throat. “Perhaps you’ll like them better after a few steps.” He inches away, but not quite so far as to break Lord Arum’s hold on him.

It’s fascinating to watch him try to walk: he moves as though his toes are the soles of his feet, and as though his knees can take the brunt of his weight without unbending. It’s a precarious stance, and it only takes two steps before he stumbles into Damien’s chest.

There are those thoughts again, treacherous and tempting.

“Try it again,” Damien says, and he steps back to a more respectable distance.

“Must I? This is a waste of time.”

“I’m afraid so, unless you’d rather I carry you.”

Lord Arum seems to consider that a little too carefully, but he takes another step, and then another.

By the time they’ve reached the edge of the clearing, Lord Arum seems to have grasped the fundamentals of walking, but he doesn’t quite trust himself to let go of Damien.

And Damien, unwilling to deprive him of a source of support, does not remove his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was genuinely not expecting such a strong response to this fic, but I am delighted.

Damien’s horse stands past the edge of the clearing, tugging at the reins that keep it secured to a tree. His intention had been to keep it well out of sight, that it wouldn’t frighten the madman in the clearing. Now that he’s certain that mad human is a very sane lizard, the choice seems far less practical. He doesn’t trust Lord Arum’s balance to keep him upright long enough for Damien to untie the horse and bring it close, and so they must take every wavering step together.

It isn’t that he’s bothered by the task– but the ground is unsteady and slick from the morning’s rain, and Lord Arum keeps stumbling into him, and the feeling of  another body pressed so tight against his is putting decidedly unchivalrous thoughts into his head.

 _Saint Damien,_ he chants in the privacy of his thoughts. _Give me your tranquility. Your tranquility. Your–_

Lord Arum’s foot slips, and instinctively Damien’s arms tighten around him. He can’t see anything but those wide, violet eyes.

He clears his throat. “Just a little farther. We’re almost there.”

Lord Arum may be entirely human at the moment, but something reptillian must still cling to his clothes along with the perfume of wildflowers. The moment the wind shifts through the trees, Damien’s horse tosses its head and paws angrily at the ground as if expecting a battle. It doesn’t bolt, thank the saints– it’s far too well-trained for that.

And then comes the task of getting him onto the horse.

It takes a moment to even realize that it is a task– the act of fitting his foot into the stirrup and swinging his leg over the saddle is so familiar that it’s more instinct than conscious movement, but he’s been riding since he was just a page.

As it turns out, it’s even more difficult than walking.

Simply getting Lord Arum’s foot into the stirrup first requires that he lift it higher than his knee, aim his toes at a remarkably small target, stand on one foot without falling over, and not stick his entire bare foot through the metal ring. For every successful step, there are a dozen small failures, and ever-louder sounds of frustration from a very flustered lizard.

More than once, the thought crosses Damien’s mind that he could simply seize Lord Arum’s foot and put it in the stirrup where it belongs, but the thought feels wrong even before it’s fully formed.

“There,” he says once the foot is in place. “Now brace yourself against the saddle with your hands– yes, just like that. And push against the stirrups with this leg–”

Lord Arum is halfway up the horse’s side before he loses his momentum and starts to sink. Damien succumbs to what is quickly becoming a habit, and he rushes to catch him. The fact that Lord Arum is significantly higher now only occurs to him when he feels a loosely-clad backside against his chest and bare thighs under his palms.

He piously informs Saint Damien that this isn’t helping things in the slightest.

“Try to stand upright,” he says, forcing himself to clear his mind. “Put all your weight onto this leg.” He taps it lightly. “As for the other leg– is there any chance of you swinging it over the saddle?”

Lord Arum’s  fingernails are already leaving indentations on the leather, he’s gripping the saddle so tightly. “Absolutely none.”

Damien recalculates accordingly, tugging at a long stretch of fabric of Lord Arum’s garment so that it sits beneath him. “Then try to turn yourself a little so that you’re facing me– yes, like that– and sit back.”

Lord Arum sits on the saddle and stares imperiously down at him. “This can’t be right.”

“No, it is.”

“I’ve seen you ride, honeysuckle. I know when I’m facing the wrong direction.”

“You’re riding sidesaddle. I assure you, you’ll be more comfortable this way.” Leather saddles and horsehair aren’t kind to exposed skin on the best of days, and Lord Arum has quite a lot of it.

The proper thing to do would be to lead the horse by the reins, but Lord Arum looks uncomfortable enough when the steed shifts its weight. Damien would rather not think of what would happen when it starts moving over uneven ground.

 _Tranquility_ , he tells himself, and climbs into the saddle behind Lord Arum.

His fears weren’t unfounded: as soon as he nudges the horse into a walk, Lord Arum tenses, twisting to regain his balance with a tail that no longer exists. Damien wraps an arm around his waist before he can knock himself off the saddle. Instinctively, Lord Arum flattens himself against Damien’s chest.

“It’s alright,” Damien murmurs. “I won’t let you fall.”

“I know that.”

The ride passes in silence, broken only by the sound of hooves on the packed dirt of the path. Lord Arum is taller than Damien– tall enough that he has no trouble resting his chin on Damien’s shoulder while they ride. It’s an odd gesture, at once strangely reptilian and undeniably endearing. 

“You don’t smell the same,” Lord Arum mutters under his breath.

“Hm?”

“I can barely smell you at all, and the things I smell aren’t the same. It’s like you aren’t even here.”

“Is it that different?” Damien asks.

“It isn’t just smell, either. I’m this close to you, and I can’t hear your heart beating. Half of your voice is gone, Honeysuckle. There are entire colors that I can’t see anymore. I’m starting to wonder how you humans survive.”

“We’ll find a way to restore you.”

“You say that, but you don’t know.”

“I swear it. I won’t rest until I do.”

* * *

“We’re almost there.”

“You keep saying that,” Lord Arum points out, and Damien can’t pretend otherwise. Nor can he promise that this will be the last time before nightfall, even as they arrive at the cottage at the edge of the forest.

When he told her about his feelings for Lord Arum, Rilla said that she didn’t hold it against him, and he believes her. But that was weeks ago– when Lord Arum was a lizard, and when there was faint hope of ever seeing him again. He isn’t entirely sure those sentiments will carry over when he’s being delivered to her doorstep like this. Damien isn’t truly sure how she’ll react. And if it’s badly…

Well, he’ll think of something.

“Do you think you can get down?” he asks.

“I think I can manage falling on my own.” Lord Arum detaches himself from Damien’s shoulder, and for a moment Damien’s caught by the cold where he used to be– only a moment, though, because Lord Arum wasn’t exaggerating when he called it falling. He doesn’t land so much as he winds up in a heap on the ground.

Damien lets out a strangled cry and all but leaps off the horse.

“Stop your fussing,” Lord Arum mutters. “I’m not hurt.”

“Are you sure?” Damien reaches down to help him up. It should be easy enough if they do it like before– Lord Arum’s arms around his neck, his around Lord Arum’s waist–

“Damien?” Rilla’s voice filters through from the garden.

He jerks back like he’s been shocked, and panic surges through his system like a cold wind. All the too-familiar touches and inappropriate thoughts come rushing back, as if they’re written on his skin for her to see.

A moment later, Rilla turns the corner, peeling the thick gloves off her hands. “Damien, is that you?”

“Rilla!” he declares, a little too loudly.

Lord Arum, still prone on the ground, raises a bemused eyebrow.

“Are you alright?” she asks. “I thought I heard a crash just now. Did you–” And then she looks down and sees Lord Arum between the horse’s knees. “Who’s this?”

The once-lizard grabs a hold of the nearby stirrup and drags himself to his feet with as much dignity as he can manage.

Damien clears his throat. “Rilla, I… er… hope you remember Lord Arum?”

“Lord–” She stares, her eyes sweeping from his disheveled hair to his bare feet and back more times than is perhaps polite. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you might have some insight into that, actually,” Damien says. “Are there any– I don’t know, any herbs that could do this? Some kind of potion?”

“You mean turn a reptile into a man?” She shakes her head. “I think I would remember something like that.”

“So you can’t do anything,” Lord Arum mutters.

“I never said that,” she says. “But I think I’ll start with a salve for those legs.”

So far Damien has been avoiding any lingering glances, but he can’t help but look. The stretch of cloth between Lord Arum’s skin and the saddle must have been dislodged at some point during the ride, because his thighs are red and raw.

He swallows a pang. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“A salve would be acceptable,” Lord Arum mutters, pointedly not answering him.

“Well, you’re in luck there. I’m pretty sure I’ve got some already in a jar somewhere.” She motions for him to follow her.

Lord Arum hesitates for a moment, and he still wobbles when he follows her, but his steps are more solid and sure than they were before. They’re gone for only a few moments before Rilla steps back outside, this time alone.

“He could use some privacy,” she says, by way of explanation. “Delicate areas and all that.”

“Right. Of course.” It’s about as long as he can keep it pent up. “Rilla, I must speak my heart.”

“I thought you would,” she says dryly.

“I am– I am truly sorry for putting this on you. I swear, I had no intention of– of putting you in an awkward position, or making you uncomfortable, or–”

“Damien, it’s alright,” she says, steadying his shoulders in her callused hands. The touch feels like an anchor in the midst of a storm. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not. I’m a little bit out of my depth, but I’m not upset.”

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he mumbles.

“The keep, maybe?” she asks. “An alchemist or one of the sorcerers might have a better idea about what to do.”

“But how? They can’t solve the problem if they don’t know what it is, and I can’t explain it without revealing what he rightfully is. They might have him arrested– or have him _killed_ –”

“Then we’ll hold off on that for now.” She gives his shoulders a squeeze, anchoring him back down. “Maybe something less direct. It’s been a while since I’ve visited the alchemy tower– I could borrow a few books without anyone getting suspicious, and see if I can put something together myself. And you can go find Lord Arum some proper clothes.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Lord Arum demands, leaning against the doorpost with a scowl. The pose would be far more intimidating if they didn’t know how much trouble he has staying upright.

“They’re going to draw a lot of attention if anybody else sees you,” she says, unimpressed. “Besides, they weren’t exactly made to fit a human, were they? It looks like they’re going to fall right off you any second.”

It’s a mental image that Damien has been fervently avoiding so far. He averts his eyes, just in case.

“You should be safe here,” Rilla continues. “Get some rest; we won’t be gone long.”


	3. Chapter 3

They haven’t been walking long when Rilla takes Damien’s hand in hers. It’s a gesture of simple, casual affection, but Damien clings to it like a lifeline.

“So what happened?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he says too quickly. “Nothing at all. I helped him walk at first, of course– but you’ve seen how unstable he is on his feet–”

“I meant how did he turn human?” she says gently, squeezing his hand. “Was it abrupt, or did it take time, or did he wake up that way?”

“I–” He swallows. “I don’t entirely know. I came across him by random chance while I was out on patrol. He was already like that when I found him.”

“I’ll have to ask him, then,” she muses. “I have to wonder, though, why did he turn human of all things? Why not into a– I don’t know, into a horse, or a rat, or a tiger?”

“It may be random chance. The grace of the Saints, perhaps.”

“I don’t know if they were involved in making him human, but I’ll give them credit for making him look like that.”

“Oh?” Damien’s voice cracks. “Like what? He’s in need of help, Rilla– it would be indecent of me to– to–” He can’t think of a word that wouldn’t incriminate him.

She smiles at him, all warm amusement. “You’re free to go on pretending he’s not good-looking, if that puts you at ease. But I’m not a knight, and I have eyes. I’m allowed to notice these things.”

Damien covers his face with his free hand, trying to hide the blush that’s heating his face. It occurs to him that he should look where he’s going, but Rilla still has his other hand, and she won’t let him stumble. When he glances at her between his fingers, she’s grinning.

“He really is, isn’t he?” he mumbles into his palm. There’s something strangely liberating about saying it aloud– and saying it in front of Rilla, without fear of reprisal. 

She nods sagely. “You have good taste in women; it only makes sense that you’d have good taste in lizards, too.”

He laughs despite himself. “I hope he wasn’t too short with you?”

“I can handle surly. Not all of my customers handle pain as gracefully as you and Sir Angelo, you know.”

“Of course.” He has no idea how she does it, but just from being around her, the anxieties of the day start to fall away. “Is it alright if he stays with you until this is sorted?”

“That’s fine by me,” she says, her smile sly. “But I would have thought you’d want to try sneaking him into the barracks.”

Damien flushes again, fully aware of what she’s implying. “My quarters are hardly a good place for secrets. The door is still off its hinges from when Sir Angelo–”

As if summoned, Sir Angelo calls out to him. “Sir Damien! Back already?” Damien has to look about him for a moment before he spots his best rival coming from the training yard. “If I knew you were coming back so soon, I would have reserved the yard for a sparring match. We still can, you know. What do you say?”

Damien tenses. How close was Sir Angelo just now? How much did he hear?

“Hello again, Sir Angelo,” Rilla says before Damien’s hesitation can stretch into awkward silence. “Damien was just taking me to the alchemy tower. I’ve got a few new experiments the alchemists said they’d help me with.”

“In that case, it’s a good thing I caught you when I did,” Sir Angelo says. “You won’t find the alchemists in their tower. They’ve spent most of the day trying to tend to the Queen.”

Damien frowns. “Is Her Majesty ill?”

“Since this morning,” Sir Angelo says. “I’m sure they would have come up with a way to help by now, but she refuses to let anyone into her chambers. They say bedrest is often the best medicine, I suppose– though between you and me, I think she needs something a bit stronger. I heard her speaking to the apothecary through the door, and she sounded terrible.”

“Ah. Perhaps I should hold off on making my report until tomorrow, then,” Damien says. With apologies to the Queen, that’s all the better. He still hasn’t come up with a good way to explain why he’s back so early. An extra day to think–

“Nonsense,” says Sir Angelo. “She’s been having us make our reports through the door.”

Damien’s heart sinks. He should have known. “Of course.”

“You go ahead, Damien,” Rilla says. “I’ll catch up with you.” She’ll likely have more freedom to look around the alchemy tower if its scholars are busy tending to the Queen.

* * *

Sir Angelo accompanies Damien to the Queen’s chamber. He’s chatting amicably all the while, but Damien doesn’t listen to a word; his mind is racing for a way to give his report without resorting outright to lies and treason. All he needs is a rough plan, and surely he’ll be able to improvise something; he’s done as much for performances, after all.

By the time they arrive, the hall outside the Queen’s chambers is crowded with so many advisors and knights that it seems the entire court has been transplanted here.

There’s already a line of people waiting for an audience, and Damien takes his place while Sir Angelo steps forward to chat with one of the sentries who was just relieved of duty.

He’s almost decided on what to say when he hears the steward of the keep make his report.

“Very well,” says a voice on the other side of the door. “You may proceed.”

Damien frowns. Sir Angelo mentioned her voice was hoarse, but this sounds nothing like her.

It happens all at once.

The line moves forward. One of the alchemists starts forward, unaware that the baker behind her is standing on the hem of her skirt. She stumbles, her hands too full to catch herself. Sir Angelo rushes to catch her, throwing out an arm for balance.

If he’d caught the stone walls, it wouldn’t have been a problem. Instead his hand strikes the far more delicate wooden door of the Queen’s chamber. When he pulls back, he leaves splinters in his hand and a hole the size of a melon in the door.

The figure on the other side of it leaps back, but not before the entire collected court can catch a glimpse of its skin.

Or rather, its _scales_.

First there are gasps.

“Monster!” somebody shouts. “There’s a monster in there!”

“Your Majesty!” Sir Angelo cries, and he grabs the door, ripping it off its hinges with a single hard pull. “Never fear, your knights will–”

But the Queen isn’t there. Framed in the doorway is an enormous lizard, covered in blood and shredded silk. More blood stains its claws, the floor, the shattered furniture strewn behind it.

For a moment, the world is frozen. And then the screams begin in earnest. The courtiers scatter and flee while Damien and Sir Angelo draw their blades.

“What have you done to the Queen, beast?” Sir Angelo demands, storming into the door. But no sooner does he clear the doorway than the lizard leaps at him, scrambling over the top of him and down the hall. “Sir Damien! After it!”

“I have it!” Damien shouts back, already breaking into a sprint. “Find the Queen!”

The lizard barrels through the halls of the keep, but Damien is close behind. From the corner of his eyes he can see servants fleeting; in the distance he can catch the sounds of chaos and panic. Royal guards are making their way in his direction, and he waves them off.

“Stay back!” he shouts. “Leave the lizard to me– get the rest of the Citadel under control!”

The command slows him down for barely an instant, but it’s enough for the lizard to vanish around a corner and through the door that leads to the barracks.

It’s a clever ploy– with the knights rushing to the Citadel’s defense, the barracks will be entirely empty– or it _would_ be clever, if the lizard had any way of knowing that. More likely it’s just hiding behind the first door it can get its claws on.

The barracks are dark, the windows shuttered and the candles unlit. This wouldn’t be the first lizard to attack him from the shadows.  He draws his bow and moves slowly, ready for an ambush.

In the dark, it’s easier to focus on the sounds of the lizard’s passing: the click of its claws, the slide of its tail, the rumble of disturbed furniture.

Strange– Lord Arum disturbed plenty of furniture during their first duel, but it was a deliberate act. This seems… clumsy.

He creeps after the sound, treading lightly, already nocking an arrow to the bowstring. 

The footfalls fall silent. It’s stopped moving. It knows he’s here.

He turns the corner, ready to let fly.

“Stand down,” says the lizard. “If the oaths you have taken mean anything to you, you will stand down.” 

The arrow is pulled to the corner of his mouth, its tip aimed for the source of the sound, but he doesn’t fire.

In his moment’s hesitation, the shape of the lizard resolves itself from the rest of the shadows. It’s most certainly a lizard, but it’s all wrong. He’s seen how a proper lizard stands, and this is nothing like that.

The lizard’s lower arms dangle half-limp at its side. Its tail lies motionless on the floor. it– _they?_ – hold themselves with a posture that is almost painful to look at: their knees are too straight, and the second joint of the leg is bent at a sharp angle, almost like the heel of a foot. 

The lizard is standing like a human.

The clothes they’re wearing are torn and bloodied, but they don’t look like they’ve been through combat. The seams are torn; in places the fabric is cut as if by claws, but the cuts are short and aborted, not long and slashing. Wrapped clumsily around their neck is a priceless silk headscarf.

And suddenly he knows. 

He lowers his bow and sinks to one knee. “My Queen.” 

She makes a sharp rattle that might sound menacing if he didn’t know better. To his ears, it sounds more like a sigh. “You know me.”

“I beg your forgiveness for not recognizing you sooner, Your Majesty. Are you hurt?”

“Nothing grave,” she says grimly. 

“But the blood–” He hesitates. He remembers all too clearly the clearing in the forest, when Lord Arum brandished his fingernails as if they were claws.

“These claws are sharper than I expected.” 

“Your Majesty, the Citadel is in chaos. We should let them know the truth of the situation immediately–”

“No.” There’s a sharpness in her denial. 

“My Queen?”

“The other knights would shoot me on sight.”

“I would explain–”

“Then they would think you have either lost your mind or been enchanted. Even if most of the Citadel believes you, it only takes one to murder me. Likely there will be more.”

“I would allow no harm to come to you, my Queen. I swear it.”

“Then trust in my judgement. Tell them that I have been found and taken to safe keeping, and that the monster they’re hunting has been apprehended.”

“Shall I call upon the royal alchemists?” he asks. “They may be able to divine some way to reverse your condition.”

“They are also the biggest collection of gossips outside of the kitchens. Or perhaps I will call upon them. Or…” She rattles again in frustration. 

“Perhaps things will be clearer once you’ve had rest,” Damien says gently.

“Perhaps,” she agrees reluctantly. That in itself is evidence of her exhaustion: the Queen didn’t pause in her duties when she was turned into a _lizard_ , after all. 

Abruptly she tenses. A moment later, Damien hears the distant sound of the barracks door opening. His hand tightens on his bow. If the other knights try to come after the Queen–

“Damien?” Rilla calls. “Are you in here?”

The tension drains from him. “It’s Rilla, my Queen.”

“Damien?” Rilla calls again.

“She’s the most talented herbalist in the Citadel– and she knows to keep a secret.”

“Very well,” the Queen mutters.

Damien raises his voice so it will carry. “I’m here, Rilla.”

Her footfalls are light as she hurries through the darkened barracks. “Damien, I ran into Sir Caroline on the way here. She said there was a monster on the…” and then she turns the corner. “Oh.”

Damien clears his throat. “Your Majesty, I believe you’ve met my fiancée? Rilla, if I may present Her Majesty the Queen.”


	4. Chapter 4

Damien’s distrust of Sir Caroline may not be charitable, but then, neither is she. Still, it isn’t for him to decide whether she’s trustworthy or not. Her loyalty is to the Queen, if nobody else, and she has few enough social graces that she won’t be tempted to spread the word of Her Majesty’s transformation. And so when the Queen orders him to find her, he obeys without hesitation.

By the time he brings her to the barracks, the Queen is wrapped in Sir Angelo’s cloak, and Rilla is helping her pin her headscarf into place. The change of clothes has transformed the Queen all over again: gone is much of the agitation and discomfort from before, replaced by a regal demeanor that even Sir Caroline cannot deny. Within minutes, the other knight is debriefed on the situation and is off again, this time to fetch the steward and the spymaster– both of them deemed worthy of keeping the Queen’s closest secrets.

“Sir Damien,” the Queen says before he can leave to assist. “A word.” 

“Yes, my Queen.” He shuts the door behind him. 

“Neither you nor Rilla seemed particularly surprised to find me in this state.” There’s a note of danger in her tone that has nothing to do with sharp teeth or sharper claws.

Damien swallows. “No, my Queen. On my patrol this morning, I found another person who had been similarly transfigured. Rilla came to the keep in hopes of finding a way to help him.“

The Queen’s eyes narrow. “There are others, then?”

“Only one, as far as I am aware.”

“Only one so far,” she corrects. “But there’s no telling how many people have been changed and gone unrecognized. Do we know what’s causing this?”

“No, your Majesty,” Rilla says. “Has anything changed recently? Have you received any new gifts? Or have any of the Keep’s supplies come from a new source recently?”

“My steward will give you all the information you need,” the Queen says. “If this is a pattern, it must be investigated and ended immediately.” 

* * *

When the steward and spymaster arrive, they agree with the Queen’s judgement: secrecy is of the utmost importance. If a curious servant caught sight of her, there would likely be another panic, and the stability of the Citadel is already in jeopardy. 

When night falls, Damien and Sir Caroline escort the Queen to one of the spymaster’s safehouses. Under cover of darkness, astride Sir Angelo’s enormous steed and with the hood of his cloak pulled low over her face, any onlooker would easily assume that she was none other than the knight himself. 

Sir Caroline is tasked with standing watch over the Queen tonight, and the spymaster is sifting through the rest of the order for knights who can be trusted. Meanwhile, Damien is assigned a different duty for the night.

“You didn’t need to come back for me, you know,” Rilla says as they leave the barracks with an armful of books each. “I could have walked it on my own.”

“Her Majesty was very clear on the matter,” he tells her. “So long as you are the head of this investigation, you aren’t to be left alone. You’re too important to the Citadel.” He lowers his voice. “And you’re too important to me.” 

She smiles softly, despite the strain. The two of them are hauling enough books to fill a respectable library; by all means, they should have taken a horse or cart, but the spymaster determined that it would draw too much attention. It’s the same reason he gave for posting Damien as Rilla’s guard– a few people might take interest in seeing him at her cottage at all hours of the night, but a secret investigation would be the last thing on their minds. 

The thought troubles him. “I’ll be sure to stay out of sight,” he assures her. “I don’t want to jeopardize your reputation.” 

She laughs. “Damien, the only person whose opinion matters to me is you.”

“Still,” he says sheepishly.

“Let them think what they like. People value my treatments enough to keep their mouths shut.” 

It’s a moot point, really: the hour is well past midnight, and the two of them make it all the way to Rilla’s cottage without seeing another soul. 

“You can go ahead and go to bed, if you want,” Rilla says, setting down her armful of books on her workbench. “I want to look over these at least a little bit before I turn in.” 

“I could help,” he offers, but she waves him off. 

“This is more my area of expertise than yours,” she says gently. “And I only half know what I’m looking for. There’s a chance I’ll know it when I see it, though. But if you want to help…” She digs through a drawer for paper and an ink brush. “I want to know what Lord Arum’s been eating for about the last week or so, and anything that’s changed recently. The steward will be sending over a list of the Queen’s meals in the morning. Maybe if we find something in common between the two, it’ll point us in the right direction.” 

It seems simple enough– or it would be, if he could actually find Lord Arum. But he isn’t in the workroom, or on the pair of cots set aside for resting patients, or in Rilla’s bedroom. 

Perhaps he took their words to heart and is hiding? Or maybe he got impatient and went looking for them when they didn’t return by dark. Maybe he went to the keep to investigate, and got apprehended by the panicking guards. 

Every thought leaves Damien more anxious. What if something’s happened to Lord Arum– what if he’s _hurt_ – what if he’s _dead_ –

In a burst of desperation, he extends his search outside. If he can at least find some footprints, perhaps he can track Lord Arum and save him from– from–

But he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t find Lord Arum so much as he nearly trips over him in the dark. He’s lying beside a tree by the garden, curled up in the nest of its roots. It can’t be terribly comfortable, but he looks so peaceful, his head nestled in his arms, his legs folded beneath him. 

His heart swells with affection before it has the chance to slow. It’s a giddy, almost drunken feeling, and he allows it to linger until it carries him into tranquility. 

“Lord Arum?” He kneels at Lord Arum’s side, touching his shoulder. A pair of violet eyes open blearily and blink at him. “Lord Arum, it’s me. It’s Damien.”

“Honeysuckle?” His voice is slurred with sleep. 

There’s no chance of getting that list from him before morning. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long, but I’m back now. Shall we get you into a proper bed?” 

Lord Arum makes a vague sound of assent and manages to pull himself upright, but just barely. He doesn’t lean against Damien so much as he melts into him, nuzzling drowsily against his shoulder.

Gone is the cold panic from before; in its place is an affection so tender that it nearly overwhelms him. He wraps one arm around Lord Arum’s shoulders– just to steady him– and pulls a twig from his long hair. “Come. It isn’t far.”


	5. Chapter 5

Damien wakes just before dawn to the sounds of morning birds and buzzing insects and a faint snoring coming from the cot beside his. The air is perfumed by a hundred herbs and spices drying from the ceiling– beautifully aromatic on its own merit, and all the more so because it reminds him so much of Rilla. She’s in the next room, mumbling nonsense in her sleep– from the sound of it, she’s still poring over the books in her dreams; last night he had to pry her off them and shepherd her into bed when she was too tired to see straight. Lord Arum is closer, his hair endearingly disheveled, one leg thrown over the side of the bed.

He climbs out of bed, careful not to make a sound that might wake Lord Arum. 

He’s always loved the earliest part of morning, when all is quiet and the world is still half caught in a dream. There’s a peace in this hour that he can find at no other time of day– and here, so far away from the bustle at the heart of the Citadel and the other knights rising for their duties, so close to two people he holds so dear, it seems particularly holy. 

He would keep this moment forever if he could.

He secures the perimeter, checking and then double checking for signs of intruders, human or otherwise, but the cottage is undisturbed. He draws buckets of cold, fresh water from the well and leaves them where Rilla will find them, though he takes enough to wash up.

He could wash the dishes or chop the firewood out back into something more manageable, but either one would risk waking the other sleepers, and he would rather let them rest. 

There isn’t much to do after that. This is officially guard duty, after all, inasmuch as Rilla will allow him to guard her, and that always entails a certain amount of standing around and waiting. All he really can do is remain alert and prepared to fend off any attacks that might come their way, and to that end, he finds a clear patch of ground beside the garden to practice his forms.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t have a change of clothes– or rather, that he does, but they’re meant for Lord Arum’s use– and that any sweat he works up will likely linger in the fabric once the day’s humidity sets in. Shrugging, he takes off his shirt and sets it aside. After all, nobody else is awake to see him.

The martial forms are meant to loosen his muscle and reinforce his technique in preparation for combat, but he’s drilled them so often that he could trace the steps in his sleep. The motions are slow and flowing, with a rhythm to them like the beat of waves on the shore. He’s so caught up in the ritual of it all that he almost doesn’t hear the sound of bare feet approaching the garden.

When he looks up, Lord Arum is watching him with interest. His oversized garment has given up on staying in place; now it’s hanging off one shoulder, leaving quite a bit of his chest bare. 

Damien freezes, suddenly self-conscious. He must look ridiculous, pacing around half naked like this.

“By all means,” Lord Arum says. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Damien clears his throat. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” He should… retrieve his shirt. Yes. That would be best. Even though that would take him even closer to his audience. 

He can feel Lord Arum’s eyes on him, taking in every detail.

“You have more scars than I expected,” he observes.

“Oh. Well. Yes.” Damien fights another surge of self-consciousness.  “That is the lot of a knight.”

“And every one marks a victory.” Lord Arum steps forward, and suddenly he’s in Damien’s space. He barely has to reach out to touch the newest scar on Damien’s arm, the one that’s still fresh from the duel on Saint Damien’s night. “All except this one.” 

Damien’s heart skips a beat, and then several. He should probably stop this– wash up or put a shirt on or remove himself from this conversation– but he seems to have forgotten how to talk. Lord Arum is so very, very close.

“I gave you this scar,” he murmurs, articulating the words an odd significance, like ritual. Like prayer. “I tasted your blood. I took you inside me. I have a claim on you, honeysuckle, by the most ancient laws of my kind.”

This isn’t like before, when Damien could shroud himself with the strictures of duty. He’s vulnerable here, exposed, and it frightens him a little. Surely that’s why he’s so dizzy. Surely that’s why his heart is pounding.

“I–” His mouth is dry. He would speak his heart if he knew how to put it into words. “I brought you clothes.”

It’s hardly his most graceful exit.

He tries to take the opportunity to compose himself, but his face is still burning by the time he returns. 

“Here,” he says, pushing a shirt and trousers into Lord Arum’s hands. “That should fit a little more comfortably.”

Lord Arum holds it up, examining it with a careful eye– and then a careful nose. “It smells like you.”

Damien swallows. “Yes. Well. They’re my clothes.” Is that bad? Should he have washed his laundry more carefully?

But Lord Arum presses his face into the fabric again, inhaling deeply, and the sight of it puts even more indecent thoughts into Damien’s head, and he needs to stop that _immediately_. 

“I should give you–” He swallows. “Some privacy.” That is not the way that sentence wants to end, despite his best efforts. “To change. I’ll– I’ll just be checking the perimeter, shall I?” 

He’s halfway through his circuit around the cottage before he remembers how to breathe properly. 

“Saint Damien,” he whispers under his breath, halfway between prayer and blasphemy. “Does he have any idea– no, of course not. He’s just… unaccustomed to… to all of this. Some difference in– in custom, or understanding, or–” 

_I tasted your blood. I took you inside me._

And if Damien hadn’t left when he did, he suspects he would have returned the gesture. The thought horrifies him– and worse, he can’t decide whether he’s more upset for having left or for wanting to stay.

He stops by a well, hauling up a bucket of cold fresh water just so he can splash it in his face. It’s almost shocking against his still-flushed skin, but it helps bring him back down to reality. 

Lord Arum has been transformed against his will, and so has the Queen. Getting flustered and distracted won’t help either of them. 

Renewed in his determination, he turns to go back to the cottage– and immediately his hand flies to his bow. Footsteps are approaching. 

“Who goes there?” he demands. 

“Sir Damien?” A man in armor steps around a copse of trees and into plain sight, his armor clattering as he walks. “Fancy seeing you here. I thought you were meant to be on guard duty.” 

“Sir Caleb,” he returns carefully. 

“You don’t have to be all tense,” Sir Caleb says. “I’m here on the Queen’s orders. I’m to relieve you of duty.” 

“That won’t be necessary.” The words spill out too fast to sound natural. “I’ve got this under control. I’m sure your energy would be better spent elsewhere.”

Sir Caleb laughs, giving him a friendly slap on the back. “No need to be so protective, Sir Damien. I remember what your fiance did to the last man who tried to flirt with her uninvited. I’d rather skip the nightmares, if it’s all the same to you. I’ll keep my guarding to the outdoors, where it’s safe.”

“Thank you, Sir Caleb,” Damien says. “That does put my mind at ease.” He clears his throat. “I’ll inform her you’ll be here.”

“If you must, but you should hurry. The Queen instructed that you were to report to her immediately.”


	6. Chapter 6

Perhaps Damien shouldn’t be surprised by the tension in the air when he approaches the safe house. Her Majesty has been transfigured, after all, and her own knights have attempted to kill her once already. 

More justifiable is his surprise that Sir Caroline is the one guarding Her Majesty when he arrives. Surely if his shift at guard duty is over, hers should be, too. Whatever the reason for the discrepancy is not his concern, though, and he allows no hint of confusion show on his face when he salutes.

“You sent for me, my Queen?”

“Sir Damien,” the Queen says slowly. “I received a report from the spymaster that you received a visitor last night at your fiance’s home.”

Damien’s stomach drops into his knees. 

“You assured me the details of my condition were secure in your care, and yet you and your fiance have been collaborating with a man my spymaster has never heard of, much less approved.”

The implications constrict around his throat like a noose. 

“Your Majesty, last night I told you that you weren’t the first person I’ve come across in your condition. The man staying in Rilla’s cottage is the other victim. I swear by the saints, I have said nothing to him about you. As far as he knows, he is the only one thus transformed.” 

Her headscarf flutters as her frill rises. “He’s human already? Does that mean you’ve found the cure?” 

_Oh, Saint Damien, help me_. “No, your Majesty.”

“Then how did he change back?” 

He swallows. “He… hasn’t.” 

“What do you mean, he hasn’t?” Sir Caroline demands. 

The Queen sits back, her eyes cold. “You never said he was human to begin with.” 

“That… that is correct, my Queen. I found him in the woods ranting about his lack of arms and tail.”

“And you took him at his word?” Sir Caroline asks. “What you’re describing sounds more like a lunatic.”

A glance at the Queen tells him that he must answer the question. “He called me by name. He recognized me from an earlier confrontation.”

“The lizard from the festival.” The Queen’s voice is cold as death.

“Yes, your Majesty.” 

She raises her voice to be heard through the door. “Spymaster.” The man appears so quickly that he must have been expecting the command. “Have your agents bring me the herbalist and her guest.”

“Your Majesty–” Damien starts forward in a frantic motion, only to find Sir Caroline’s sword at his throat. 

“That beast invaded my personal chambers,” the Queen seethes with barely-controlled rage. “Allowing it to escape alive was indefensible, but I showed you leniency. Harboring it now is nothing short of treason.”

“Your Majesty, I–” The sword presses against the hollow of his throat, just enough to break the skin. He can feel a bead of blood welling from the cut. “I have no excuses for my actions, and I will face the consequences. But Rilla had no part in this. I beg you, don’t make her pay for what I’ve done.”

His mind is racing to find a similar defense for Lord Arum, but there is none that he can give. He’s a monster– and the monster who threatened the Queen, however indirectly. It’s not a question of whether he will die, but who will kill him.

He feels like he should be in the midst of a panic, but he’s frozen in place by a cold acceptance. There is no running from this.

The door opens again, and he can’t help but turn to look. Rilla stumbles inside and bows as soon as she regains her feet. It looks as if she was pulled out of bed. Lord Arum is shoved roughly after her, but he moves carefully, holding on to what dignity he has. When his gaze falls on the Queen, his eyes narrow with interest.

“Rilla,” the Queen says, and Rilla rises from her hasty bow. “Your fiancee has admitted to treason.” 

“Treason, your Majesty?”

“He has given clemency and shelter to an enemy of the Citadel, in violation of his most sacred vows.” Her eyes flicker in his direction for barely an instant, in what might be an act of mercy. “He insists you were ignorant of his crimes. My royal spymaster has cause to believe you complicit.”

Rilla lifts her chin to look the Queen in the eye. “Complicit in an act of kindness? You flatter me, my Queen.”

“Rilla, no–” Damien begins, but the sword is on him again. 

“The Queen?” Lord Arum asks, his voice raised to draw attention. “You should have said something, little knight. I could have saved you both a good deal of tedium.” His eyes are on the Queen, without any pretense of deference or humility. 

She matches his stare with one just as cold. “You know what’s happened.”

“Of course I do,” he says. 

Instantly Sir Caroline’s sword is off Damien and trained on him. “I suggest you explain.” 

“Tell me,” he hisses. “Did you notice the headscarf that went missing from your room, or are you upset about a few broken vases?” 

The Queen’s eyes narrow. Damien told her about the headscarf. 

“Surprising, isn’t it, what a skilled sorcerer can do with a few personal effects. Or a few stray hairs clinging to a bit of clothing.” 

“You did this,” the Queen breathes.

“I don’t waste my time with anything so erratic,” he says. “I was paid handsomely to take it. Had I known why, I would have stayed home.”

“Don’t act like you’ve had a change of heart,” Sir Caroline says.

“Hardly,” he hisses. “My blood was on that scarf. It seems the traitorous mage couldn’t be bothered to tell one from the other, and caught us both in this little trap. Find the one who cast the spell, and you’ll have no trouble reversing it again.”

Sir Caroline advances on him, drawing a second blade. “You will tell us who they are. Immediately.” 

Lord Arum doesn’t even acknowledge her threat. “I would be happy to. In fact, I’ll take Sir Damien there myself.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the Queen. “ _Only_ Sir Damien, and perhaps Rilla.”

“Faithless reptile,” the Queen says. “You’ll run at the first opportunity.”

“Of course I will. But I want out of this body as much as you want out of that one.”

“Then you will tell us where this sorcerer is.”

He raises his chin. “You’ve heard my terms.” 

“Then hear mine, beast,” Sir Caroline says. “Tell us, or you’ll be cut apart by inches until you do.” 

“You intend to torture me?” He sneers. “By all means, go ahead. I’ll give you the right answer and a thousand wrong ones, and let you puzzle them out yourself. Or perhaps you’d rather try searching on your own? I’m sure it won’t take more than a decade.” 

He and the Queen stare each other down for nearly a minute before she speaks again. “Sir Caroline, you are to–”

“Send her along, and I’ll spend the next month walking in circles.”

She takes a long, heavy breath. “Damien.”

He feels the lack of title like a knife in his chest. 

“My Queen?” he says weakly.

“Undo this curse and come back to the Citadel immediately. I’m not finished with you.”


	7. Chapter 7

The horses tied up near the safe house are the property of the Queen, for the use of her knights when they go on official errands. Damien might not be a knight anymore, but this errand is for the Queen’s sake as much as Lord Arum’s, and so he tells himself he feels no guilt for taking them, or the bow or equipment nearby. There’s no doubt in his mind that the spymaster will send his agents after them– if there’s to be any chance of getting away unfollowed, they’ll need to move quickly.

Rilla rides by herself; Lord Arum is still too unsure of his balance to ride alone, especially when Damien kicks his heels and sends them into a gallop. Their steeds don’t appreciate the pace, but Damien thanks his namesake for the small mercy. It keeps him from reliving his every decision since the Festival of the Three. No matter how many times he retraces his steps, he can only find one path that doesn’t lead to this moment– one single point of divergence between spending the rest of his life as a Knight of the Crown and racing away from the Queen a traitor.

He could have killed Lord Arum.

His grip tightens on Lord Arum’s waist as his entire being rebels at the thought. He hates what he’s caused, but he can’t bring himself to wish he’d done it any other way.

* * *

The lands around the Swamp of Titans’ Blooms are too treacherous for horses, and so they dismount and set the horses loose. The steeds are well trained, and by nightfall they’ll have returned to their stable. In the meantime, their wandering will leave a false trail for their pursuers to follow.

Lord Arum leads them the rest of the way– not so much on foot as by hand. The ground is a nearly impassable mire, but he takes them into the trees. The forest canopy is densely interwoven and judiciously pruned– from below it looks entirely nondescript, but the branches form walkways so solid that their passage barely rustles the leaves.

There’s no need to wonder where the swamp got its name: rising from the water are plants the likes of which he’s never seen before– and judging by the look of wonder in Rilla’s eyes, neither has she. Twisting stalks grow into unnatural shapes; flowers bloom with petals as wide as Damien is tall; leaves spread out like cushions, impossibly thick and soft as suede.

He can point out a few of the plants as traps. Some of them have their trip vines taut and set to spring, likely to guard the swamp from intruders or to show off his wares to wealthy customers, while others are still growing, their menace rendered only in miniature.

Lord Arum leads him past them all and into an enormous tree– though perhaps tree is the wrong word. Its branches are lush and green, but inside the enormous trunk is hollow, its vast space divided into rooms that climb up its length like a tower.

“We should be safe here,” he says, running his fingers along a length of vine.

Another spark of wonder lights up Rilla’s eyes as she watches it shudder and the leaves shift to hide the entrance from sight, but in the next moment she turns to Damien, all business. “Lord Arum, do you have any ointment?”

“I should.” Lord Arum slips away. Damien tries to see where he’s going, but Rilla pulls him back to face her.

“Hold still. I want to get this cleaned up before it causes trouble.”

“That’s really not necessary,” he says quickly.

“Damien, Sir Caroline looked like she wanted to take your head off.”

“But she didn’t.”

“Not for lack of trying.” She takes the handkerchief out of his pocket and raises it to his throat. When she pulls away, it’s stained with blood.

Not for lack of cause, either. The thought makes his stomach twist. “It’s barely a scratch, really.”

“But even a scratch can get infected.” Her eyes are on his, steady and unmovable. “Please, Damien. Just let me do this.” 

He swallows. Mere hours ago she was being dragged through the Citadel for his crimes. She could have died because of him. “There’s no need to worry about me, Rilla.”

“I want to.” 

A hand touches his shoulder, and Lord Arum steps out from behind him.

“This should help,” he says, handing Rilla a small glass jar. His other hand remains where it is– pointedly so, though Damien can’t discern whether the gesture is meant to be comforting or to keep him still while Rilla works. He’s very close, though. They both are.

Rilla’s hands are rough and sure, callused from years of hard work in the jungle and in her garden. Lord Arum’s are softer, and the pressure of them is strange on Damien’s back– solid and unyielding in the palm, but so light in the fingers that it’s barely there at all.

 _Because of his claws_ , Damien realizes distantly. Even though the danger isn’t present anymore, Lord Arum is careful not to hurt him.

“The Queen,” he says. “Will changing her back convince her not to pursue us?“

“It might make it easier for her,” Rilla says. “As long as she looks the way she does, we have at least a little bit of leverage over her. Taking that away might only remove a distraction.”

They’re talking like they’re outlaws.

But they are, aren’t they? All three of them.

Damien sighs miserably. “I don’t think the Queen will force the matter once the crisis is resolved. There are far too many other matters that will require her attention. There won’t be need to spend her knights looking for us.”

* * *

Damien is a little embarrassed to feel surprised when Lord Arum ducks into his larder– and that it’s stocked with delicacies from across the continent, though he suspects most of them are more suited for monstrous palates than human ones. He knew that Lord Arum’s creations are highly sought after, and that his tastes are refined, but somehow he must have missed a connection or two. At least he didn’t actually voice his surprise; the things he said when they first met haven’t yet left his head, and they leave him mortified. But Lord Arum is nothing less than a gracious host. 

While they eat, Rilla indulges in the questions that have been forming since the arrived. “You grew all of this?”

“I did,” Lord Arum says, looking up with a twinge of pride. “They’re hybrids of my own design.”

“Hybrids?” Her eyes light up. “Have you had any luck with cross-pollination?”

In a moment the two of them are off talking animatedly about grafting and selective breeding and other things that Damien can only half-follow, but he doesn’t need to. Watching them, his racing mind slows down for the first time since they left the Queen. This feels right in a way that so little else has.

_Saint Damien forgive me, b_ _ut I’m not sorry._


	8. Chapter 8

Damien recognizes the knives on the wall. They’re works of art, their handles crafted to resemble lily blooms while the curved blades were made to form their leaves, but they’re no mere decoration. Damien knows all too well– he’s held one of those knives in his hand not long ago.

Lord Arum must have noticed him staring, because he reaches out and takes one of them from their place of honor.

“Here,” he says, offering it to Damien.

Damien swallows. “I– I couldn’t.”

Lord Arum rolls his eyes and fastens the blade to his belt, and then does the same with another. “Don’t be absurd. Four blades aren’t going to do me any good while I have two hands. You’ve got skill with that bow of yours, but it’s large. The sorcerer will try to break it the moment she sees it. You’ll want another weapon to rely on.” 

Just like that, reality sets in. 

They’re going to go to the sorcerer. 

They. _Plural_.

“You’re coming, too?” he asks quietly.

“I said I would, didn’t I? Or did you think I would give you directions and hope you would understand?”

“Ah. Yes. Well.” For that to work, the two of them would have to have a shared point of reference, or even shared names of the same landmarks, and they have nothing of the sort. 

“Besides,” Lord Arum adds at a mutter. “I’m not about to let you go on your own. She’ll kill you if you give her half the chance.”

“That dangerous, is she?” 

He gives Damien a look. “Why do you think Rilla is staying here?”

“She’s– what?” It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but Damien’s stomach rolls. 

“Did you say something?” Rilla asks, wiping her hands on her apron as she steps inside. 

“Nothing, nothing.” Damien tries to laugh it off. “Of course you’re staying here. Silly me. What was I thinking?”

“Is that a problem?” Rilla frowns. “I’ve always stayed behind when you go off on your adventures.”

“Yes! How right you are!” It comes out too forcefully, loud enough to be heard over the drumming in his ears. “Even though that was before, when the Citadel was right there and you had all the knights of the Crown to defend you should something happen, and now they’re the ones I’m worried about–”

“Damien, shh.” She strides past a confused-looking Lord Arum and takes his shoulders in her hands. “You said they wouldn’t come, remember? The Queen has more important things to do than come after us.”

“ _But what if I’m wrong?_ ” His heart is pounding. He’s gasping, but his lungs won’t fill with air. “What if somebody comes while we’re away, and there’s nobody here to help you, and you’re alone, and–”  

“Damien.” She squeezes his shoulders tighter, tugging him back to reality. “Damien, breathe. Just breathe.” She tips her head against his, their foreheads touching, until he can see nothing but her face and the exaggerated rise and fall of her shoulders. He clings to her, following her lead until his breaths come easier and his heart slows to a mere gallop.

“Do you trust me?” she asks slowly.

His voice trembles, but he manages the word: “Always.”  

“Then trust me with this. I can take care of myself. I’ll be okay.” 

“I can… show you how to work the traps, if you like,” Lord Arum offers, a little awkwardly. 

“That would help.” Rilla leans in and kisses Damien’s forehead. “Do you want to come with us, or would you rather stay here and catch your breath?”

Damien swallows. Lord Arum knows this swamp better than anyone, and he’s armed. He won’t let anything happen to her. “I– I think I’ll sit for a moment. Thank you.” 

“Alright. We won’t be long.” 

She gives him a parting squeeze and follows Lord Arum into the swamp.

Left alone with himself, Damien prays.

* * *

It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t. Was it?

Perhaps it was more of a half-truth, then: he didn’t actually know what the Queen would do. He still doesn’t. By all means, perhaps she will leave them be after she’s restored. 

Or perhaps she won’t. There’s no way of knowing for sure.

No. That isn’t true, either.

There’s _one_ way to be certain.

* * *

By the time Rilla and Lord Arum return, Damien has settled into an uneasy calm.

“Are you feeling better?” Rilla asks, smoothing his hair. 

He draws a long breath. “Yes, I think so.” 

It isn’t a lie, but she smiles gently, like she can see right through him. 

“Take care of him, okay?” she says, glancing at Lord Arum. “Don’t let him get too worked up.” 

Lord Arum raises an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you expect me to stop him?”

Rilla leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to Damien’s lips, sweet and unexpected. When she pulls away, he trails after her, half hoping to draw her back in. 

“That usually works pretty well,” she says with a grin. 

It takes him half a moment to take her meaning, and he’s broken out of his dark thoughts to be properly scandalized. “Rilla!” 

“See?” She gives his hand a squeeze. “Everything’s going to be fine, Damien. You two go and have an adventure.” 

* * *

Damien and Lord Arum make their way through the trees– quite literally _through_ them, keeping to the woven walkways far above the forest floor. They’re far from the Queen’s roads, and the foliage below is so thick that it would take hours to cover the same ground that they do in minutes, even on horseback.

Still, the woven branches are knobby and uneven in places, enough so that walking requires some attention to keep them from careening over the edge and to the forest floor below. That’s why they aren’t talking.

That’s what he keeps telling himself, anyway, but he can’t make himself fully believe it. Nor, it seems, can Lord Arum.

“You’re quiet,” he says after a long while. “What, no poems fit for a journey?”

Damien flashes a grim smile. “I wouldn’t abuse your ears so, Lord Arum. I know your opinion on poetry.” 

He’s a little gratified to see Lord Arum flustered. “That wasn’t what I meant.” 

“No?”

“It–” Lord Arum hisses. “It’s very _human_. Spending a thousand words to talk circles around a single idea. Speaking for the sake of hearing your own voice. Going on and on because you find it _pretty_.”

“And you prefer the quiet.”

Rather than answer, Lord Arum frowns at the woven branches, watching his steps. The silence goes on long enough that Damien assumes the conversation is over when Lord Arum speaks again, so low it might nearly be a mumble. “Your voice I don’t mind.”

“Hm?”

“It isn’t the same as it was before, when I could hear you properly, but it’s still…” He weighs the word in his mouth before he lets it out. “Pretty. Prattle on about nonsense, if you want. I won’t stop you.” 

“I’m sure you’ll find something to complain about.” Damien’s smile is more genuine this time. “But thank you.” 

Mostly to humor him, Damien fishes for some ballad to recite, but his net comes up empty. His mind is too full of other thoughts to make room for poetry. By the time he draws that conclusion, he’s been quiet for too long to make the attempt.

Perhaps another half hour passes before Lord Arum speaks again. “If you’re still worried for Rilla, don’t be. She’s safe where we’ve left her. Very few make it through my traps as easily as you did.” 

“That was hardly what I would call easy,” Damien says. “Your traps are very near inescapable. I’m sure they’ll pose a formidable challenge.” 

“Then what is this about?” Lord Arum demands. “That nonsense with the Queen?” He hisses again. “If she would give you up so easily, then she doesn’t deserve you.” 

“I wish I could believe that,” Damien says quietly. But the Queen’s anger is no overreaction. He knew he was committing treason when he spared Lord Arum’s life. He was pardoned once already, when the act was a mere indiscretion, but now it’s put the stability of the Citadel at risk. There will be no mercy a second time. 

When he looks up, he finds Lord Arum staring at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re actually considering it.” 

“What?” 

“ _Going back._ ” 

Damien wants to deny it, but he can’t. He feels too much a fiend already to add more crimes to his ledger. “I… I have to know for certain whether she’s restored.”

“When we break the spell, it will be broken for us both. That isn’t what this is about.” If he still had it, Lord Arum would be lashing his tail. 

“I…” Damien swallows. “I have to face Her Majesty’s judgement.” 

“Why? So she can make an example of you?” He’s far too close, but Damien doesn’t back down. “I have a claim on you, honeysuckle. Nobody else may harm you. Not even your Queen.”

“That isn’t for you to decide.”

“But it could be,” Lord Arum is almost pleading now. “Walking away from death isn’t cowardice, Damien. And walking into it isn’t bravery.”

“I can’t just run away,” he says quietly. “What do I have have without my honor?” 

“What do you have?” Lord Arum’s fingers catch in Damien’s shirt. “You have your life. You have Rilla. You have _me_.” 

He looks so fragile, so vulnerable, that Damien can’t help himself. He tips forward and catches Lord Arum’s lips against his. The returned kiss is rough, one part inexperience and one part desperation, but soon he follows Damien’s lead. As the force against his lips softens, the kiss grows more intense, caught up in lead and follow, push and pull. Damien’s hands slide to cup heated cheeks. Thin arms wrap around him and pull him closer. 

It’s Lord Arum who breaks the kiss, pulling back to catch his breath. They’re still close, their foreheads touching. Lord Arum’s eyes are half-lidded and distant as he struggles to collect himself. He has to clear his throat twice before he can manage to mutter, “The– ah– the sorcerer. We should…”

“Our mission,” Damien agrees.

“That was…”

“Yes.” 

He clears his throat one last time before stepping back. “It’s this way.” 

“Lead on,” Damien says, and lets Lord Arum take a few steps ahead before he follows.

His fingers rise to touch his lips, and he doesn’t fight a wave of bittersweet guilt.

Rilla was right. It really is quite the distraction.


	9. Chapter 9

“Lord Arum? Who makes these roads?” 

They’ve been traveling for most of the day, mostly along the elevated paths through the forest canopy. At the moment, the walkway is descending down a spiral around a tree, settling into a clear path of packed dirt.

“The monsters who live here,” Arum says. “Who else?”

“Why, though?” 

Lord Arum looks at him like he’s just asked something tremendously stupid. “They make it easier to get from one place to another.” 

“Well– yes, I suppose– but I’ve seen the way you take to the trees. I’m surprised you would bother with it.”

“Just because I can climb doesn’t mean I don’t want the option. And, I suspect, so do the monsters who do business with me.”

“Of course.” Damien isn’t sure he’ll ever entirely get used to it– that monsters have business dealings, an economy, a _society_. Not just Lord Arum, but most of them. _All_ of them, perhaps.

There’s a thoughtful silence. “They’re markers, too, I suppose. When you see well-maintained paths, you know that the territory there is owned. That it’s cared for. When the paths are overgrown, it means there’s land without a master, and it’s free to whatever young upstarts have the tenacity to claim it.” He adds as an afterthought. “At the rate you knights go, land changes hands fairly quickly.” 

Damien’s steps falter.

He knows precisely the number of monsters he’s killed. He’s taken pride in that number. 

Lord Arum glances back at him, looking impatient. “Yes, humans kill monsters. And monsters kill humans. And often enough, both kill their own. I’ve had more than a few nestlings try to snatch my swamp from underneath me, and I’ve killed the ones who didn’t have the sense to run. I’m hardly torn up about it; I don’t see why you should be.” 

“And what of their families?” Damien asks quietly. 

“You assume our families behave like yours.” 

“What about the– the people who will miss them when they’re gone, then?”

“What makes you think anyone would?”

Damien hesitates. “I would,” he admits quietly. 

Lord Arum sighs. “Of course you would, delicate little honeysuckle.” He hooks a long finger under Damien’s chin and tips him up for a kiss. “I have no intention of dying. I’m going to be too preoccupied with keeping you safe.”

It would be a touching moment, if it wasn’t interrupted by a rumble of horrid laughter. 

Lord Arum’s face goes stony, and he twists away from Damien to face the source of the sound.

“Oh, don’t stop now!” cries a grating, booming voice. “Do go on. Tell me, do you have any other heartfelt confessions to make?” As it breaks into another squeal of laughter, Damien can finally make out the shape: it’s an ogre, its skin a craggy brown and patched with ivy, mirroring the tree behind it. But as it stills, the edges of its shape blur and fade, and it seems to vanish into the background again. “Lord Arum, was it? You’ve changed your look– I hardly recognized you.” 

Lord Arum hisses, his teeth bared. “You’re the one who did this to me.” 

“Come to thank me, have you? You certainly look like you’re enjoying yourself.” The ogre laughs again, sounding for the world like a boulder rolling over bones. “Really, Lord Arum. You’ve been so moon-eyed over humans, it was just a matter of time before you went and joined them.” 

“You pathetic double-crosser, we had a deal,” Lord Arum snarls. Behind him, Damien discreetly draws an arrow from his quiver and nocks it to the string. “You will reverse this at once.” 

“Or what?” the ogre asks. “You’ll stop doing business with me? You’ll spoil my reputation?”

Lord Arum’s voice is sharp as obsidian. “Or I’ll kill you.“

“Ah yes, with your big sharp claws,” she crows. “And all those teeth! And knives– oh yes, can you even use those any–”

She gives a yelp as an arrow embeds itself into the tree a few inches from her face. 

Damien grits his teeth. He was aiming for her hand, but somehow it got lost in the rest of the camouflage. Still, the point was made rather succinctly.

“Oh-ho!” the ogre cries. “So your human isn’t just some pretty bauble to hang off your arm? Oh, do let me try it on!” She waves her hand, and the vines overhead come to life. He makes to dive out of the way, but his feet are quite literally rooted to the ground, caught in the writhing tendrils that rise out of the forest floor.

While he tries to pry the roots off his feet, the other vines creep lower, catching him by the arm. Another reaches for his bow, yanking it into the canopy. When he tries to pull it back, the vines crawl down his arm, shackling him in place. More vines wrap around his shoulders, his chest, his throat, and as they tighten around him, they _pull_. The air is smothered from his throat and crushed out of his lungs, and all the while he can hear his bones creaking and groaning from the pressure. 

“Damn it, honeysuckle!” Lord Arum slashes at the vines over Damien’s head, and the constricting force around his throat goes slack.The vines that have Damien’s arms are thicker, and so he has to saw frantically before the first one snaps. He pushes his knife into Damien’s hand and draws another. While Damien liberates his other hand, Lord Arum carves away the roots at his feet.

“Are you hurt?” Lord Arum asks, pulling the withering vines from Damien’s arm.

The bow is long gone. And so, it seems, is the ogre. The place where she stood is empty. She might have moved on by a few feet or she might be gone from the clearing altogether. There’s no point in looking for her. If she’s hidden, she won’t risk being seen to move again.

So he tries another tack, all but draping himself over Lord Arum’s chest. “I am, thank you.” 

Lord Arum looks slightly alarmed. “What are you–”

Damien leans in and catches his eye. “Play along,” he whispers, barely audible between the two of them.

“With what?” Lord Arum whispers, just as low.

“She seems to be a fan.” 

“Of all the–”

Damien throws his arms around Lord Arum’s neck. “Play along,” he urges again.

“You’re not very good at this.”

“I’m a poet, not an actor.” 

“ _Then don’t act._ ” 

Before Damien can reply, Lord Arum kisses him so hard it takes his breath away. 

Somewhere overhead, a the ogre clears her throat.

The kiss continues, bruising in its intensity. Lord Arum pushes Damien backward until he falls against a tree, and Lord Arum is upon him once again, this time making his way down Damien’s jaw and onto his neck.

“Lord– Lord Arum,” Damien gasps.

“It was your idea,” is hissed into his throat.

Damien throws his head back, his eyes wide open. And so he can see the edges of a shape start to define themselves as the ogre creeps closer. Her shape resolves enough that he can see her squinting at them through the distant trees. 

“Ahem,” the ogre says, more directly this time. “Am I interrupting you?” 

Lord Arum ignores her in favor of pulling at Damien’s shirt. Damien’s blush is no act– he has no idea how far Lord Arum intends to take this charade, and he’s not sure how comfortable he is getting any more intimate in front of an audience. 

“Hello?” The ogre steps even closer, her form almost entirely opaque. 

It’s all the opportunity Damien needs. He lets the dagger fly. The ogre wreaths herself in invisibility once more, but it’s too late. The blade hits its mark, and now its hilt marks her like a beacon. Instinctively she draws it out, and a splash of dark blood sets her apart from the background. There’s no invisibility that will hide her. 

At the sound of its shrieking, Lord Arum rises to his full height and turns to face the ogre, a blade in each hand. Damien leans in, drawing the last dagger from Lord Arum’s belt perhaps more suggestively than is absolutely necessary. 

“Get back!” she shrieks, brandishing the knife that was just inside her a few moments before. “Get back! I’ll–” She waves her hand again, and the vines resume their menacing coil, but their movements are sluggish and slow. 

“Having difficulty focusing?“ Lord Arum says, striding toward her. “Pain will do that to magic.”

She tries to run, but even at a walk, he’s faster. 

The dirt road at his feet turns to quicksand, but he marches past it before it can suck at his ankles. 

The ogre trips on one of her own raised vines and crashes to the ground. She’s cowering now.

“I’m warning you!” she cries. “If you kill me, you’ll never break the spell. You’ll be human forever!” 

He grabs her by the collar, the knife still folded in his fist. “I think I’ll manage. You, however…”

She throws her hands up. “All right! All right! Your point is made. I’ll change you back right now, shall I? I’ll– I’ll pay you twice what I gave you for that headscarf. Triple. Even throw in something shiny for your… um…” She waves frantically at Damien, unsure of what to call him.

“The spell,” Lord Arum growls. “Now.” 

“Of course, of course,” she says, and draws a bloodstained silk headscarf from her pocket. “I keep it on me at all times, see? To keep the magic running. It takes so much out of me, but it’s worth it, don’t you think? To turn the Queen of the Citadel into a–”

“ _Now_.”

She squeaks and pulls away. In the same instant, the headscarf bursts into flame. For a moment the silk twists in the air, billowing in its own heat, and then it’s consumed entirely, accompanied by the sound of tearing fabric.

The man who stood over her is gone. In his place is Lord Arum, tall and proud despite the torn clothes hanging off his frame. He flexes his claws– all four of them– and his tail uncurls experimentally. 

“See?” the ogre asks, crawling back. “Everything’s fixed, just like you asked. Now let me just go get your money, and we’ll call it even–” 

She doesn’t get the chance to finish that sentence before Lord Arum’s knife carves through her throat. 

“That was for hurting Damien,” he says, cold and deadly calm. “ _Now_ we’re even.”


	10. Chapter 10

For a long while, Damien can only watch, transfixed, as Lord Arum cleans the blood off the blade with meticulous care– and then he lifts his head and glances back over his shoulder.

Damien’s face heats. He’s been caught staring, he knows it, but he can’t read the emotion in those violet eyes that hold his gaze. 

He should say something, but he can’t. He’s frozen by the sight of those deadly claws, the four powerful arms, the strong tail coiled around legs that are steady and confident for the first time in days. 

Finally he finds his voice, tearing his eyes away to dig through his pack.

“Y-your clothes,” he says, holding them up in offering. 

Lord Arum looks down at himself. The borrowed clothes are torn beyond repair; they were never meant to contain such a creature. 

“Perhaps I should apologize…” 

“Think nothing of it,” Damien says hastily. “The important thing is that you’re restored. Besides, I think we’ve both managed to destroy more valuable cloth.”  It’s meant to lighten the mood, but it falls flat. Lord Arum is still looking down at what he’s wearing, a little perplexed. Even in ruins, the clothes are prohibitively tight. Peeling them off will be nearly impossible– so he doesn’t try. With a thoughtful rattle, he draws a claw down the length of his sternum, slicing through the remains of the shirt and liberating his chest in a way that will surely haunt Damien for the rest of his days.

Damien swallows and tries to order his mind. He should throw the clothes out. Not here, of course, lest another monster find a hair or sweat or blood on them and start this whole ordeal all over again, and he isn’t entirely sure what would become of him if he were transfigured into a lizard. He should– perhaps he should burn the clothes. Or cut them into rags. It’s difficult to focus on anything more complex than that while Lord Arum sheds the ruined shirt, carefully untangling it from his many arms without ever quite taking his eyes off Damien.

Damien realizes he’s been caught staring again.

“I– I should–” Words fail him. He can’t think of any way to finish that sentence properly, and so he elects to leave before he can embarrass himself further.

He doesn’t go far– just past the edge of the clearing, where he can take cover behind a large tree and attempt to regain a fraction of his composure.

“Tranquility,” he whispers under his breath. “Saint Damien, grant me your tranquility. Your tranquility…” He leans against the tree for support, trying to take strength from the solid presence behind him. It only brings to mind the minutes before, when he was pinned to a different tree by roaming hands and a hungry mouth. .

He covers his face with his hands, willing his frantic breathing to slow.

 _Tranquility_ , he pleads silently. _Saint Damien, please–_

“You’ll have to go farther than that if you want to hide from me.” Lord Arum’s voice reaches him half a moment before he steps around the tree. He’s properly attired now, draped in the strange clothes that suit him so very well.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Damien says quickly, which is half true at least. “Just giving you your privacy. If you’re finished, we can be on our way– unless you have other business here?”

“ _I_ have none,” Lord Arum says, with perhaps a bit too much emphasis on the first word. “But if you intend to do any more staring, I suggest you do it now. You’ll need your eyes on the path.”

“Staring?” Damien squeaks. “Nonsense. I was simply–”

“Disappointed?” Lord Arum finishes for him.

Damien swallows. His shoulders fall. Is– is that what Lord Arum thought?

“Never,” he says, soft and sincere. “Startled, perhaps. And–” He trips over the word, reluctant to make it known, but he must speak his heart. “And ashamed. You look– you look so much more at ease now. It brings into sharp relief just how… how uncomfortable you were before. And– and that I didn’t–” he stops  and tries to recollect himself before he can devolve into incoherent babbling. “I should have been more aware. And for that, I am truly sorry.” 

“Is that what has you so upset?” Lord Arum sighs. “My delicate little honeysuckle.” 

He leans in, impossibly close but not quite touching. There’s still a breath of distance between them.

Damien hesitates. He’s kissed Lord Arum– thoroughly– but not like this. Would Lord Arum enjoy the sensation now that he’s properly himself again? Did he before? Damien certainly thought so, but there’s so much he assumed in error already– but it seems Lord Arum is inviting it now– if Damien waits too long, would that be taken as– as disappointment? Rejection? Revulsion? If he doesn’t, would it be too forward of him? Is it acceptable? Is it not?

_Saint Damien guide me._

He leans in and carefully, hesitantly, presses his lips to Lord Arum’s.

He won’t pretend it isn’t strange– those lips are thin and dry, textured with scales, hiding sharp teeth and a sharper wit– but it isn’t an unwelcome feeling. He lifts his hands to the edges of Lord Arum’s jaw and kisses him again, more fervently this time. And Lord Arum seems receptive– more than that, he seems enthusiastic, _eager_. He catches Damien around the waist and pulls him closer, _closer_ , until Damien’s feet leave the ground entirely.

* * *

The forest at night is no place for a human. That hasn’t changed. 

He sleeps deeply that night all the same.

Lord Arum won’t let anything happen to him.


	11. Chapter 11

Quite a few monsters must have noted their passage on the way to the sorcerer. On the return journey, Damien catches sight of a few watching them through the foliage. He suspects that there are others he doesn’t perceive, judging by the way Lord Arum’s claws tighten around his shoulder at odd intervals.

The constant contact isn’t a sign of anxiety, or even an attempt to reassure Damien. It’s a signal to the other monsters in the forest, so clear and deliberate that it might as well be in writing: Damien is _his_. He’s already killed one monster to defend that claim, and he’s ready to do it again. Damien suspects he won’t need help, but he made sure to retrieve his bow and keep it strung, just in case.

But the journey is a long one, and it isn’t _all_ tension. Not of the hostile variety, at any rate.

Lord Arum’s nose brushes his ear, close enough to make him shiver. “Give me a poem, honeysuckle. Let me hear your voice again.”

Damien flushes. A poem. Yes. Of course.

He settles on an old ballad from the First Citadel, about lovers separated when one is called to war. He’s recited it a hundred times at least-- usually during monsoon season, when storms keep the world locked inside and the rain drums a beat against the rooftops.

He tells himself that Lord Arum’s request is another show of power, that only someone truly confident in their right to be here would so brazenly draw attention to themselves in a jungle full of monsters. He has to make himself believe that-- the alternative would leave him too flustered to articulate the ballad properly, and that would only embarrass them both.

 

* * *

 

 

When they return to the swamp, Rilla is there waiting for them, a relieved smile on her face and a basket of herbs on her hip. She always throws herself into her work when she‘s worried.

It’s mostly to assuage her fears that he lets her check him over. The sorcerer’s vines left heavy bruises on his neck and hands -- nothing ghastly, but it’s visible enough to cause concern. Besides, Rilla always seems to feel better after she’s had the chance to gauge the extent of his injuries for herself, and Damien won’t deny that he appreciates the contact.

He shuts his eyes and lets his attention narrow to the sensation of her hands on him, the familiar smell as she blends honey and garlic into a thick paste, the stickiness as it’s spread over his cuts and scrapes and carefully wrapped to stave off infection. Her care is as ritualized as his prayers, and just as soothing to a troubled mind. He’s nearly sorry when she pulls away.

“It looks like you’ve got a cracked rib,” she says. “I can give you something to help with the pain, but it should heal on its own in a few weeks.” Her smile could warm a winter night. “Do you think you can hold off on the adventuring for a little while?”

“I...” He doesn’t know how to answer that honestly. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

She kisses his forehead. “That’s all I ask.” And then she turns on Lord Arum. “As for you, Lord Lizard.”

Lord Arum’s frill flattens against his neck. “There isn’t anything wrong with me.”

“And I’ll believe that when I see it,” she says, grinning. “All brave heroes have to get examined after battle. It’s a rule.”

“But I’m not hurt.”

“That’s what you said about that thorn you stepped on yesterday, too, but I bet it felt better to get it out.”  Her expression softens. “For my own peace of mind, at least. You both went into that fight. I want to make sure you both made it out in one piece.”

Lord Arum gives a dramatic sigh. “Alright. If it’s all that important to you.” He makes a show of acting put out, but he can’t quite hide the half-lidded look of contentment as Rilla looks him over for cuts and bruises.

“You’re very good at this,” he muses while she cleans up a cut on his leg.

“Well, I am an herbalist. It’s my job to be good at it.” There’s a moment’s hesitation before she shrugs. “It was, anyway. If I’m down to two patients, I’d better take good care of you.”

“Rilla...” The pit in Damien’s stomach is all too familiar. “I’m... sure it won’t be a problem now that the Queen is restored.” It sounds believable enough, doesn’t it? After all, it’s not entirely a lie, is it?

“I’m not so sure about that,” she says. “I caught one of her spies here last night.”

Damien’s throat goes dry. “Did you?”

She nods, smearing more of the honey paste onto a bandage. “He didn’t get far. I found him in the thistle trap close to the road. I drugged him and put him back on the road, but he sounded like he wasn’t going to be the last one.”

“Well, yes,” Damien says, trying to act out confidence he doesn’t feel. “But that was last night. Likely the Queen was still transfigured when he set out.”

“If you say so,” she says. “But I feel a lot better with all those traps around.”

“They didn’t give you trouble, then?” Lord Arum asks.

“I did set off the shriekweed at one point, but I eventually figured out how to make it stop. Where did you even find that? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Are you familiar with parrot plants?” he asks.

“Well, yeah, but its auditory properties are in its roots,” she says, and the two of them are caught up in a long, complex debate that mostly escapes him. Damien suspects the two of them might have a hundred conversations just like this. A thousand, perhaps.

Perhaps Rilla could be quite happy here.

He holds onto that thought.

 

* * *

 

 

When Damien wakes, it’s underneath a pile limbs. Rilla tucked against his side, her head on his shoulder, one leg folded over his thigh, her arm arranged in an odd configuration with Lord Arum’s over his chest. Lord Arum is curled around his other side, one leg twined with Damien’s.

They have him so thoroughly ensnared that he can’t help wonder if it’s by design.

The bed is warm, the bodies soft and comfortable against his. All he has to do is shut his eyes and fall back asleep.

Last night they spoke of contingencies and plans for the future. Lord Arum said he and Rilla were welcome to stay here as long as they wanted. Forever, if they feel so inclined. He said they would be safe here.

And perhaps they would-- safe from a single knight, or two, or five. But there’s no telling how far the Queen will go to see the Citadel secure.

Damien won’t let it get that far.

And so he untangles himself from Rilla and Lord Arum's embrace. It takes longer than he would prefer, but he can’t afford to wake them. If he has to look them in the eyes, then he might never leave.

He should write a note-- or something better than a note, something worthier-- but there is no poem that could contain the way he feels, no ballad that could describe it. If he tried for a hundred years, he might manage to arrange the words in the right order, but he doesn’t have that time. All he has is this precious handful of moments. All he can do is hope that they’ll understand. 

He allows himself one last indulgence: a kiss on Rilla’s forehead, another on Lord Arum’s cheek.

And then he leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

He walks along the woven walkways in the canopy, but not for long. There’s a man on the forest floor below. One of the Queen’s spies, no doubt: he seems perfectly capable, but he looks more suited to a court than to the jungle. His eyes are too wide, and glancing over his shoulder at every sound, but he never thinks to look _up_.

Well. There’s no use prolonging his discomfort. 

Damien takes care to keep out of sight as he makes his descent, then steps into the open right behind the spy. “I hope you aren’t looking for me,” he says cheerfully, and the spy jolts. “If you are, you’re going the wrong way.”

The spy whirls to face him, a knife already in his hand. “In the name of the Queen,” he hisses. “You’re--”

“There’s no need for that.” Damien raises his empty hands. He left the bow against the mantel in Lord Arum’s home, set just below those beautiful knives. “I surrender. I’ve come to turn myself in.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s with some relief that Damien is taken back to the keep. For the last two days, he’s been plagued by the worry that the Queen’s condition and Lord Arum’s weren’t connected after all, and that they had ruined their one chance by killing the sorcerer.

But when he’s led into the throne room by two armed guards, he lays eyes on the queen in her natural form, with two arms and skin in place of scales and presumably hair hidden underneath one of her many priceless headscarves. It seems he was brought in while court was in session; she’s surrounded by half a dozen royal administrators and their attendants.

It’s an audience that he would rather not have, but he will face it all the same.

He brings his hand to his shoulder in salute and respectfully lowers his eyes.

“Sir Damien,” she says coolly. “I see you were successful.”

“Yes, my Queen. The sorcerer is dead. I apologize, but your Majesty’s headscarf was destroyed in the encounter. I had intended to return it to you. But it won’t be used against you again.”

There’s a slight murmur among the attendants. When Damien dares a glance at her face, the Queen has gone utterly still, her face expressionless. It seems the Queen’s transformation is intended to remain a secret.

“Very well,” she says, and her voice betrays nothing. “Though I am surprised that you came back at all.”

He lowers his eyes again. “I trust in your Majesty’s wisdom. I know you will do what is necessary for the safety of the Citadel.”

Rather than respond, she addresses her administrators. “This matter requires my immediate attention,” she says by way of a dismissal. “Guards, I want you stationed outside the door. I’ll call if I need you.”

Damien is about to ask if that’s wise-- she thinks him a traitor against the Citadel, after all-- but he bites his lip and says nothing. What’s unwise is questioning the Queen’s judgement in front of her courtiers.

He keeps his mouth shut and his eyes down as the attendants file out of the room and shut the doors behind them, leaving him alone with the Queen.

“Your Majesty?”

Her expression is as unyielding as a mountain. “I want to know why you really came back.”

“You gave the order, my Queen,” he says carefully.

“And you decide to start obeying me now?”

Damien tries not to cringe. “My disobedience was my crime alone, and the retribution should be my own to bear. I see no reason to bring Rilla and Lord Arum into it.”  He straightens his spine. “I regret the danger I have brought to you and to the Citadel, but I don’t regret sparing his life. I’m prepared to accept the consequences of my actions.”

“You understand that you may hang for this.”

“Is that your Majesty’s judgement?”

“I’ll make my judgement when I’ve heard the whole story.” She leans forward in her throne. “I want to know why you did it.”

“My Queen?”

“A lizard broke into my bedchamber, and you not only allowed it to leave alive, but you bandaged its wounds with a priceless royal heirloom. Why?”

His face heats. “I cannot rationalize my actions. I know my crime.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she says, undeniable force in her voice. “Explain yourself.”

_Are you sure you’d rather not just get on with the hanging?_

“I did it because...” He swallows. _Saint Damien, give me strength._ “Because I could not bear to do otherwise.”

He can’t bear to look at her face, either, but a slight motion of her hand indicates he should continue.

“I did intend to kill him, Your Majesty. But it was obvious when he spoke to me that he is neither a mindless beast nor a soldier, but-- but an architect. An intellectual.”

“He broke into my chambers,” she reminds him.

"And for such an offense, I could have seen him arrested and imprisoned-- but not killed. Not for climbing a wall and smashing a vase."

"That wasn't your decision to make.”

"I know, your Majesty. But I stand by it. Even before he was transfigured, there was something human in his eyes.”

“I see.” She sits back, steepling her fingers. “This Lord Arum seems very attached to you.”

That’s certainly one word for it. “Yes, your Majesty.”

“I suppose he’ll cause more trouble if something were to happen to you.”

Damien swallows. He had considered that. “It is a possibility, yes.”

“Then it seems he’ll have incentive not to put you in any more precarious positions.”

Damien blinks up at her. “I-- I’m not sure I follow.”

“You call him a lord and an architect, and when he was here, he spoke of being paid to steal my belongings. A week ago, we had no idea that monsters had such things available to them-- which would suggest that the Citadel’s policies toward monsters have been misinformed for decades. Perhaps centuries. If we are to move forward, it must be with a stronger understanding of who and what we are dealing with. And it seems that you’ve found yourself in a position to do just that, Sir Damien.”

Something bubbles up through the oozing dread in Damien’s chest.

“Don’t misunderstand, you stole my headscarf, allowed an intruder to escape, and lied about your contact with him after the fact. For that, you will be suspended from your duties. I will need to consult with my advisors about what to do with you when you return.”

“I--” Damien doesn’t even know how to put it into words. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

“I doubt your tie with Sir Angelo will survive my judgement.”

He has to try not to laugh aloud. “It is a price I am willing to pay.” But he collects himself. “And-- and Rilla? Will she be permitted to return to her patients?”

“I suspect she will whether I allow it or not,” the Queen says wearily. “I suggest you collect your things and go before your fiance and your lizard friend come looking for you.”


End file.
